R. Peake - Marching With Caesar - Conquest of Gaul

A knot in my throat started to form, then the Primus Pilus’ voice cracked out, stopping the moment. “What are you cunni smiling at like drooling idiots? Haven’t you ever seen a Pilus Prior before?”

He looked at me and said sternly, “I apologize Pilus Prior Pullus,” giving my new title and name a boost in volume so that everyone not in eyesight could hear the news, “your new command seems to be composed of imbeciles and lunatics. I don’t know who trained this lot, but they should be dismissed from the eagles immediately.”

Of course, this was all in jest, since it was Crastinus himself who trained this very Century and was our first Pilus Prior. Now they were on their fourth, and if I was not so happy it would have been a sobering thought. Only one was promoted, and he stood before us. One was forced to retire while the other died, not exactly reassuring odds. But there was a saying; if you wanted to live a long life, why did you join the Legions? Live hard, die young and leave a good looking corpse behind for cremation was how most of us looked at things. Very few of my comrades thought seriously about the future the way I did, and I have often wondered what role this played in my survival through so many battles. My side was aching, meaning I was still not quite up to doing anything strenuous, but I had survived yet again and I made a mental note to find some way to properly thank the gods with an appropriate offering. The Primus Pilus left me with the men, and immediately after I gave them the command to return to their prior attitudes, they came bounding to me, offering their congratulations. I wanted to think that most of them were sincere, but I was smart enough to know that a fair number of them were merely trying to grease the wheels in the event that they fell afoul of me at some point down the road. Just when I was about to get upset, I thought wryly, why should I, it’s exactly what I would have done, and I think one of the keys to my success in many areas was that I never lost sight of what it meant to be a Gregarius . During my career, I saw too many Centurions who underwent some sort of transformation, thinking that suddenly because they were no longer in the ranks and had their own latrine, their cac did not smell the same as the rest of the men. The men whose reaction I was most anxious to gauge were of course my former tentmates, particularly Vibius, because I was now two ranks ahead of him. Then I realized with a sudden thrill that now that the spot of Optio was open I could appoint who I wanted, provided they were sufficiently senior, which Vibius certainly was, and of the appropriate rank, which he was as well. Just as suddenly, however, my stomach twisted as I was hit by the recognition that because I was already operating at a disadvantage, with the Centurions under me watching every move I made like a hawk, there was no real way I could make Vibius my Optio. It would not matter whether he was qualified or not, his promotion would cause jealousy, making it as close to guaranteed as possible that whispers of favoritism passed from one fire to another. I felt like I was dashed by cold water, even as I went through the motions of accepting the congratulations from the men, agonizing over how to tell Vibius. The fact that I had not even brought the subject up with him but was already worried about how he would react at being passed over shows how entrenched in my own viewpoint I was back in those days. It never occurred to me that perhaps Vibius did not want to be Optio; because of my own ambitions, I naturally assumed that others shared the same goals. Luckily, for both of us I think, once I did broach the subject with Vibius, he instantly threw up his hands in horror at the thought of being considered for Optio.

“Titus,” he said once we walked away to chat in private, “I've got no desire to be an Optio. This is as far as I want to go. I’ve got a little more than six more years to go, and then I’m going home to start my life. This isn’t my career like it is yours. I may have thought so at one time, but I know that although I love the army, I’ll be ready to go home when my time is up.”

There was no way to adequately express my relief at his resolution of this one dilemma, yet I still faced others ahead of me, and we both knew it. I have sometimes thought that the main reason Vibius said he did not want to become Optio is to help spare me at least one of the trials that lay ahead.

My meeting with the other Centurions did not start auspiciously, since I was late to my own conference, although I do not remember the reason for my tardiness. The five other Centurions were gathered in my tent, all of them rising to intente as I entered, startling me. My reaction caused a couple of smirks, and my heart sank at this sign that I was already making a hash of things. It is probably a good idea now to give the names, along with the Centuries they commanded, of the first Cohort I was to command. Gaius Domitius Celer was the Pilus Posterior of the Second Century; a squat, ugly little man with a nose broken so many times it was just a misshapen lump protruding from his face. Normally, he would have been the leading candidate for the position I now held, but Celer possessed a tendency to drink a bit too much, and I guessed that this was the main reason he was passed over. He clearly did not see it that way and would prove to be the most obstinate of the Centurions in the Cohort when it came to accepting my authority gracefully. Titus Flavius Priscus was the Princeps Prior, leader of the Third Century. Priscus was a good man, even if just to look at him he did not present the sight of what one would think of as a Legionary, let alone a Centurion, but this was deceiving. He was of average height, several inches shorter than I, of medium build, with plain regular features and a strong jaw that slightly jutted out his only distinguishing characteristic. The Centurion in charge of the Fourth Century was Princeps Posterior Marcus Arrius Niger, a dark swarthy Capuan who got his start in Pompey’s army and was a crony of Celer’s, to the point where he mimicked the other’s attitude in everything, including how he viewed me. He bore a long scar down the length of his arm that he earned in our battle with the Nervii, but he was a brave enough man and a decent leader. Marcus Julius Longus was the Hastatus Prior, the Centurion in charge of the Fifth Century, and was a man to watch because of his apparent fondness for finding reasons to punish his men. There were plenty enough men like Longus in the Legions who completely forgot what it was like to be a Gregarius and therefore decided to rule by fear. While I have no problem with using fear in itself, there had long been whispers that Longus was using these punishments to enrich himself. Once I got settled in and reviewed the Cohort diary, in which every activity and punishment is recorded every day, I was struck by the fact that, despite leading the Cohort in writing his men up, the rate of those accused of charges serious enough to earn some sort of corporal punishment, like a flogging, was the lowest in the Cohort. The vast majority of the infractions for which he wrote his Legionaries up were of the variety that called for monetary fines and it was this I found disturbing, although discovering the problem would have to wait for a while. First, I had to get the idea in their head that I was leading the Cohort, whether they liked it or not. Finally, there was Marcus Antonius Crispus, the Hastatus Posterior, Centurion of the Sixth and final Century. At that time I did not know much about him; what I did know amounted to the mutterings of his men that I overheard. He was the oldest of all of us, and I believe he had either accepted or resigned himself to the idea that this was as high as he would go and no higher. Here they all were, standing before me, technically subordinates to me, but I could already tell that there were a couple of them who were going to pose a problem. Clearing my throat, I began by offering them some wine, an offer which they all accepted. Zeno, who was actually more experienced in matters of this type than I was had already prepared for this meeting, presenting a tray with six cups. In his will, Pulcher left me a number of amphorae of Falernian wine, though at the time I did know why, but I suspect now that he had a hunch that I would be his replacement. Because I had no real interest in wine, he probably figured that I would not worry about using it in a profligate manner. In fact it was Zeno who casually informed them that what they were being offered was Falernian, and I saw a number of different reactions, ranging from surprise on the face of Priscus, a hint of anger that was in a clear struggle with desire on the face of Celer, to a look of concern on the face of Niger, who kept glancing at Celer to gauge what reaction he should be having. Unfortunately, Celer was torn between the idea of refusing the drink, which I suspected was part of the plan he hatched with Niger, thereby drawing a clear line of battle, yet was taunted by the spirit of Bacchus that resides in every wine lover’s soul, and in the end Bacchus won. Giving Niger a slight shrug, he licked his lips thirstily as he reached for the cup. Once their cups were charged, I offered a salute.